It is so all along the line--the hard and soulless art of technique
and rule, of tradition and precept, however accomplished, however
perfect it is, is worth nothing; it is only another dreary form of
labour, unless through some faculty of the spirit, some vital
intensity, or even some inexplicable felicity, not comprehended,
not designed, not intended by the artist, it has this remote and
suggestive quality. And thus suddenly, in the midst of this weary
beating of instruments, this dull laying of colour by colour, of
word by word, there breaks in the awful and holy presence; and then
one feels, as I have said, that this thrill, this message, this
oracle, is the one thing in the world worth striving after, and
that indeed one may forgive all the dull efforts of those who
cannot attain it, because perhaps they too have felt the call, and
have thrown themselves into the eternal quest.

And it is true too of life; one is brought near to many people, and
one asks oneself in a chilly discomfort what is the use of it all,
living thus in hard and futile habits, on dull and conventional
lines; and then again one is suddenly confronted by some
personality, rich in hope and greatness, touching the simplest acts
of life with an unearthly light, making them gracious and
beautiful, and revealing them as the symbols of some pure and high
mystery. Sometimes this is revealed by a word, sometimes by a
glance; perfectly virtuous, capable, successful people may miss it;
humble, simple, quiet people may have it. One cannot analyse it or
describe it; but one has instantaneously a sense that life is a
thing of large issues and great hopes; that every action and
thought, however simple or commonplace, may be touched with this
large quality of interest, of significance. It is a great happiness